FICATHON STARTS NOW
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It starts like this:
Pam has had a few too many to drink and Karen has been eyeing her from across the bar, daggers in her eyes, all night.
She’s out with friends, real friends, New York friends who are so much more enlightened and tangible than the ones she left behind. They’re not high school friends who are stuck in could be’s and would have been’s. They’ve been drinking, celebrating the end of the week, but the eyes on the back of her neck are distracting and the bottom of her stomach is threatening to drop.
But she’s the new and improved Pam Beesley and she won’t let this opportunity pass her by. She’s in New York, her hair is down and her empty ring finger is reminding her that their rivalry was ineffectual.
So she stumbles to the bar, nervously, but not drunkenly and Karen freezes because she doesn’t know the new improved Beesley who doesn’t sit quietly on the other side of the room.
“I’m sorry I stole your boyfriend.”
This brings more drinks and soon their giggling because they’re so much better than a small town paper boy. Somewhere between shot three and beer six, her friends leave, after assuring she can get home.
She doesn’t make it home and by five her early rising roommate is calling, interrupting her blissful state just before the hangover. She wants to turn off the ringer, but her jeans are in the doorway and Karen’s arm is wrapped around her waist, securing her to the unfamiliar bed and she’s more content to sleep.
It starts like this:
They wake up hung over, but sated. Karen’s in New York doing something she hates for lots of money, while Pam is doing something she loves for nothing.
Karen says that cancels out her materialistic evil and she wants to see Pam later. But Pam has an art show that evening and she’s tied for the night and she leaves, aching and disappointed, a feeling that’s become foreign in the recent successful months.
It ends like this:
There’s a headache behind her eyes and the lights in the studio is harsh against her eyes.
Karen appears toward the end of the night, bags under her eyes darkening an uncertain look on her face. She studies Pam’s art tentatively, like she’s afraid of it and Pam let’s her off the hook with a hand on her arm and a peck on the cheek, which isn’t tentative at all.
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